


Caution! - Armed Nervous Wreck Inside

by Shaleschnueffler



Category: Kings of Con (Web Series), Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blackouts, Gen, Guns, Horrible Aim, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Nervousness, RPF, Random & Short, Rob is a mess, Why Did I Write This?, anxious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 11:53:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17079839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shaleschnueffler/pseuds/Shaleschnueffler
Summary: It's dark in the bunker, and nobody is around. So Rob grabs a gun and goes for a walk. Featuring the infamous Oh Jesus™.- "I don't know how it happened but I got an anxious Rob Benedict aimlessly walking the MOL bunker during a blackout. Armed."CONTEXT:Rob and Rich have been cast into the foreign universe that is the Winchesters' - and are now trying to find their way back. But of course, nothing goes according to plan.Please note that this does not feature his/their first encounter with the brothers.





	Caution! - Armed Nervous Wreck Inside

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there.
> 
> A short explanation on my behalf:  
> I absolutely adore R2 and I love pitchforking the two of them into the SPN universe which is why I've been imagining and writing about this for...way too long. This short fanfic is probably my personal favorite, though. I will most likely not upload more of this series as I've been writing most of it privately.
> 
> But for now  
> Enjoy!

He'd somehow managed to get to the other side of the bunker - and by 'other' he meant 'opposite'. And he had no clue how the hell he'd ended up here.  
  
When the lights had gone out, he'd been in the room the guys had offered him, sitting at the small desk and taking a few notes because he'd felt inspired to write a song again, with his head being a mess and his thoughts jumbled. At first, he hadn't thought anything of it - until about twenty stressful minutes later in which he hadn't heard a single sound. So, of course, he'd been a little on edge then, seeing as he was _pretty_ sure that Dean and Sam or at least _one of them_ should've loudly complained about the darkness by now, which, still, hadn't happened. Radio silence.  
  
And so he'd stopped pacing his room - and running into pieces of furniture multiple times - and left the room instead, noticing that the rest of the bunker was equally dim. Normally, he wouldn't be scared of the dark, he was a grown man after all; a grown if slightly anxious man. However, the situation he was in at that moment wasn't exactly comparable to the few hours he'd spent alone at home or in hotel rooms in the middle of the night, and the fact that demons and werewolves and vampires, and basically _everything_ he'd ever seen on the series, was real here, wasn't exactly calming.  
  
Yeah, he definitely wasn't keen on investigating this issue by himself. And he surely wasn't gonna do that, oh _hell_ no! He was gonna look for Rich and ideally run into one of the Winchesters during his search who would then fix this lighting problem while he and his friend hid away in a lockable room because even if this was _only a blackout,_ he certainly wasn't going to take that risk.  
  
Rob's search for any fellow human beings led him through multiple hallways, rooms, and chambers - a few of which he left again as soon as he'd taken a step inside, too weirded out by whatever it was that _might_ or _might not_ have moved around in the corner -, but except for books, knives and things he couldn't possibly identify in the dark, he didn't find _anything_. Especially nothing of use.  
  
At some point - it must've been an hour since the lights had gone out; jeez, time really did fly by in this _not-at-all-creepy bunker 30 feet below ground level, holy shit, he was so gonna die down here_ -, he decided to arm himself. Because for one, neither Sam nor Dean had shown any sign of life - not even Castiel had, for fuck's sake; why was this happening to him, _what had he done wrong_? - and also, he didn't have a clue where or how he could get out of this maze-like bunker. So getting himself a weapon was probably the best thing he could do. Yeah, he'd never shot with an actual firearm, or stabbed someone with an actual knife but hey, he knew how to cleanly cut vegetables and while that wasn't a lot, it was at least... _something_ , right?  
  
...  
  
Yep, he was definitely fucked.  
  
Finding a gun in one of the drawers was an easy procedure - completely normal, too; who doesn't have a weapon in _every single shelf in their home_ , right? - and Rob actually managed to cock and load the firearm at almost-first try. With both of his hands clasping the gun and feeling oddly badass, he continued his search. And he did definitely _not_ yelp when he crashed into a chair a minute later. Nope.  
  
He'd been walking for another ten minutes when he discovered a door that seemed somewhat important, and he didn't even hesitate to carelessly open it and step inside. He looked around, realizing that the room was just another dead end. Sighing, he made a move to turn around and leave again when an idea struck him.  
  
And so he did the one thing he'd always been good at - in computer games at least.  
  
Sit, aim, and wait.  
  
It had been his way of playing shooters since he'd played his first match, and he'd been comparatively successful with it - until people had started calling him a camper. Upon looking up the phrase, he'd had to admit that yes, a camper was _exactly_ what he'd been. But to his defense, nobody had told him that "camping" was such an issue in these kinds of games. And he'd come up with it by himself so _theoretically_ , it had been his _own_ idea. An idea that he'd considered a _strategy_ until those people had called him out on it. He'd stopped playing after that. Sometimes he still wondered how people managed to aim so precisely at his head within split seconds while he hadn't even had time to realize that he'd run into the enemy's base.  
  
The good old times.  
  
But at least there, in the bunker, in real life, camping wasn't forbidden - and even if it had been, he wouldn't have given a flying fuck, because for one thing, he had this thing called _common sense_ and for another thing, there was something deeply ingrained in him, something widely known as _survival instinct._  
  
And so he crouched down in a corner, lifted his gun and pointed it at the closed door in front of him, deciding that he would stay where he was until the lights went on again or until he happened to run into someone he knew - or until _they_ ran into _him_ , therefore.  
  
After about ten minutes of complete nothingness later, Rob was torn already. Torn between lowering his gun and getting lost in his own thoughts to get his rapid heartbeat back under control, and solely focusing on the weapon in his hands. But then again, if he let his guard down and an attacker stormed in with his firearm raised, he'd probably be dead within seconds. And so, being the scaredy-cat he was, he kept staring at the door, deeply wishing _someone_ would just pull it open already and save him from this dumb situation he'd somehow gotten himself into.  
  
Then he realized that he might just accidentally shoot Richard square in the face if he walked through that door now. Because if he was being honest, right now he trusted his poor aim - he'd never actually _shot_ with a real weapon, just to mention - more than his wrecked nerves. Hell, he was an anxious mess at the moment. His finger was trembling on the trigger, it wouldn't surprise him if he accidentally fired a bullet because of how much his hands were shaking. Okay, maybe it would surprise him. It would definitely surprise him. It would _scare the shit out of him._  
  
Maybe he hadn't exactly thought this through.  
  
He should've attached a note to the door to warn the people outside against the armed nervous wreck cowering in the corner of the room.  
  
God, why was camping in real life so stressful?!  
  
He exhaled audibly when he heard muffled steps from the other side of the wall. Swallowing thickly, he shifted around for a second to reposition, eyes sternly set on the door.  
  
It burst open.  
  
Rob saw and recognized Dean before he could fire a shot. That, by itself, was a good thing. However, his brain, being an average one, needed time to process the dim image in front of him and during these split seconds, his hands went on instinct. And that was the story of how Rob Benedict pulled the trigger on Dean Winchester.  
  
In the same second, the lights went on again. And for a moment, all he could see was white. But he was still able to hear things. And what happened next was pretty much all clear to him.  
  
Dean recoiled, yelling his catchphrase - " _Son of a bitch!_ " - from the top of his lungs before the bullet hit the wall, not even _rudimentarily_ close Dean's original position, and Rob wasn't sure whether he should feel disappointed or relieved that, despite having aimed at that goddamn door for an _eternity_ now, he'd still managed to _somehow miss_.  
  
...Then again, _Richard_ would've most likely _not_ been fast enough to get out of Rob's line of fire in time, and would've had a face-to-face rendezvous with the bullet instead so... He was comparatively content with this outcome. Blessed be his horrible aim.  
  
\- "Oh Jesus", he breathed, lowering the gun and raising a hand to massage his temples, heart beating rapidly in his chest. "Oh, _God_." He needed a drink. Maybe two. Or five.  
  
That was when Dean dared to carefully move around the corner again, face twisted in both shock and anger as he began to shout. Rob wasn't exactly listening _attentively_. And _no one_ could possibly blame him for not concentrating on whatever it was that Dean was telling him. He was shaken up, he really didn't need the _'What are you doing with that gun'_ , _'Get out of here'_ and _'Dude, what the fuck?!'_ talk right now; nuh-uh. What he _did_ need right now was to get out of this _god-forsaken hellhole of a bunker_. Okay, maybe not. Maybe he was just gonna go to his room and curl up in his bed. But _then_ , he was going to leave! At some point. Hopefully. God, he wanted to go home.  
  
Once he'd apologized - with a crooked smile on his lips and one hand awkwardly rubbing his neck -, he'd pressed the gun into Dean's hands and taken off. The corridors seemed less horrifying now. Still horrifying. But less than before. Which was a good thing. Definitely a good thing.  
  
He'd look for Rich now. Talk to him, find some comfort, share a drink, or maybe two. Maybe five. Drown his problems in alcohol, together with his best friend.

 

He was definitely going to shake up that song he'd been working on.


End file.
